


Shop, Bake, Eat...

by Talik_Sanis



Series: Miraculous Crackfics [15]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Adrien Agreste Is Sunshine, Baking, Cookies, Crack, F/M, Fluff, Good Parent Tom Dupain, Hot Mess Marinette Dupain-Cheng, Humor, Innuendo, Let Adrien Agreste Eat, M/M, Oblivious Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir, Pre-Reveal Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Protective Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Thirsty Marinette Dupain-Cheng
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:56:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talik_Sanis/pseuds/Talik_Sanis
Summary: Adrien is the most sinfully gorgeous hunk of innocent adorableness in the world, and must be protected, even from her.That pretty pink tongue sweeps over his oh-so-lucky lips, ending up poking out the other side of his mouth.Adrien must be protected. Especially from her.Marinette arranges to go grocery shopping with Adrien so they can bake cookies together. Everything is going well until he asks to buy something that's not on their list...Wholesome Adrienette fluff with desperately thirsty Marinette and Adrien pining and dropping sexual innuendoes unwittingly.
Relationships: Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Luka Couffaine, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir & Nino Lahiffe, Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, Adrien Agreste/Chat Noir, Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth/Nathalie Sancoeur
Series: Miraculous Crackfics [15]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1755580
Comments: 133
Kudos: 167





	1. Chapter 1

It starts, as it must, with couponing.

As a committed bargain-hunter who knows how to stretch her money for commissions, Marinette could easily retrieve coupons digitally in only a few seconds, but this process is not about efficiency.

They lug a pile of flyers for various nearby grocery stores up to her bedroom and lay them out on her work desk.

Through their preliminary review for any bargains that stand out, Adrien boggles at the explosion of prices, colours, sales, and sheer variety on offer, slouching and ruining his perfect model posture as he leans into her space so close that she can feel him breathing. She tries to be good, tries not to look – appreciate – eat with her eyes.

And also her mouth, please!

She can only manage the latter as all the sumptuous warmth of his skin radiates into her. He's like a furnace. A _sexy_ furnace.

His scent is a drug at the best of times, and she's hardly at her best at the moment: green vetiver and something woodsy along with a kind of musk she can't place.

Clearly, she needs a closer... sniff.

 _Adrien is nearly touching her_ all warm and cozy in her _bedroom_ , and then he is, brushing her hand with almost-reverent fingers as he receives the first flyer from her like it's an ancient, crumbling spell-book replete with arcane lore.

His eyes are alight with glee that he tamps down on, delicate pink tongue (that, honestly, she kind of wants to suck on) poking out from his lips as he concentrates, brow wrinkling, while making precise snips with his scissors to clip out the coupon that they've found for fifty cents off a stick of butter.

Also, as she flames while staring at his expression of focused concentration, she knows.

This is how she dies.

She's melting, combusting, incinerating, and oozing into a floppy puddle on the floor.

Adrien is _licking his lips_ in her bedroom after just having _touched_ her.

Adrien is the most sinfully gorgeous hunk of innocent adorableness in the world, and must be protected, even from her.

That pretty pink tongue sweeps over his oh-so-lucky lips, ending up poking out the other side of his mouth as he carefully turns the flyer so that he can snip the last edge of their coupon while Marinette throws on the most innocent grin she can muster to reassure him that he's doing a good job.

Adrien must be protected _especially_ from her.

Tikki grimaces and shudders before burying her face in her nubs from behind Adrien's back.

Clearly, the smile is not reassuring, but Adrien beams like a lighthouse beacon when he looks up from his work and shows off the coupon.

“So, are we all set now, Marinette?” He's wiggling in his chair, holding out the coupon, cupped in both hands, for her to take.

_Why must you be so pretty and cherubic all the time, love of my life, and also will you have my babies?_

“We could, but I usually pick up more than just one coupon.”

His confused kitten blink confirms that she is not fully melted as she sweats off a few more bullets.

“You can use... _more_ than one?” he breathes, angling to stare down at the little slip of paper in his hands.

“Yep!” It's a popping screech because she's trying to tamp down on the jealousy. That lucky coupon, being looked at like that. Why hadn't _she_ been born as a coupon? “Usually, there's no limit to how many coupons you can use when you go shopping.”

After laying aside the coupon for butter, he scoops up another flyer. “Let's cut them all out!”

She would, too, and buy every single item, but that wouldn't be giving Adrien the “real” experience of couponing, shopping, and baking and eating cookies that they'd agreed to.

Because Gabriel “Don't look at me; I'm just a sperm-donor” Agreste had never let Adrien do any of those things.

“We could do that,” Marinette begins, finding the courage needed to restrain Adrien's exuberance that has him ... squirming in excitement while seated at her desk, “but I was thinking that we just find the coupons for what we need.”

“Oh,” he deflates, biting his lip and she kind of wants to chastise his teeth for being so cruel and inhumane. “I guess that was stupid, wasn't it?”

Her spine straightens as she cups his shoulder and squeezes it, ignoring the muscle that shifts at the edges of her fingertips because Adrien's hurting, down on himself, and needs _Ladybug_ ; not Marinette.

“It's _not_ silly” - she doesn't even think 'stupid;' that would be... just stupid - “Adrien. I think that it's great that you're being so conscious about saving money. It shows just how ... frugal you are, and that's really admirable when some people” - _Chloe_ \- “are so wasteful just because they have more than other people do and don't appreciate that.”

He blushes, scratching at his neck, and she has to be imagining that he seems ... awed. “I just don't take things for granted. The important things, like having friends like you, Marinette.” He covers her hand with his and gives her a squeeze that's more reverent than the way he was holding the flyer.

_Ladybug. Ladybug! Ladybug! _

She's _Ladybug_ right now and will not break down and either sluice through the cracks in the floor or smash their faces together because she doesn't really know how to kiss properly.

“Money isn't – well, it's important because so many people don't have enough.” He's racing, like he doesn't want he to think that he's entitled. “So I just try to treat it with respect, but it's not the thing that's really precious, you know?.”

Of course, his room probably has a hundred-thousand Euro worth of games, indoor basketball hoops, and all manner of paraphernalia, but she knows.

They're ... bribes to replace the things that are actually precious – the things that Adrien doesn't have enough of in his life.

People who care about him.

From that small, so-clearly feigned smile on his face as he can't bring himself to look at her, he knows that too.

She _is_ Ladybug at the moment.

“This is part of the fun, though!” she assures as she picks up the scissors from the desk and holds them out to him. It's an offer; several in fact. “Spending time together with friends or family, hunting down all the right bargains. Comparing prices between different stores. Finding just what you need, and being surprised by a deal that's just too good to pass up.”

He smiles, takes the scissors, and refers back to the recipe sheet that they made, alongside their grocery list, focusing in on the prices and remaining coupons like he's trying to perform vector calculus that will determine the fate of the world.

Oh, and Marinette melts completely.

The shopping excursion tests Marinette's nerves, as if they've not been sufficiently frayed already.

* * *

Adrien veritably prances into the store at her side, insisting that he push the cart because it's only fair that he do something when she's already given so much of her time today, and is poised to spend even more while teaching him how to bake cookies.

“So, how do we find the ingredients?” The question is slow, restrained, and tinged with awe as he surveys the two-dozen shoppers and aisle upon aisle of foodstuffs. A significant bustle of patrons may threaten to overwhelm them both.

"You see those?" Affixed to the end of each row, corrugated plastic signs lists off major categories of items. "Usually, the toiletries, dairy products, and eggs are on one side; fruits to the other." She points towards the end of the store and Adrien's gaze follows the motion of her hand, taking it all in.

"Anything frozen and meats are in the back, but you can just read the signs at the end of each row to find what you're looking for."

Adrien blinks, pushing the cart towards the first in the series of rows to look up at the listing for fresh produce, vegetables and fruits.

"That's so cool." He grins, turning to look back at her and maybe kill her. The teeth set in that massive grin gleam so white-hot that they could melt her eyes. " _You're_ so cool, Marinette. You know something about everything."

The bliss she feels at his effusive and boyishly earnest praise is tempered only by her desire to feed Gabriel Agreste _his_ rotten teeth for having tried to lock this poor boy away from the world.

Attentive to every detail and motion, Adrien looks like he's trying to mimic everything she does during their ensuing stroll through the store. He even seems to copy her stride as she walks down the aisles, his nose and brow pinched up with the same look of concentration that he displays when working through a new concept in their physical mechanics class, his favourite subject.

_Do not think that he's studying you like his favourite subject. _

Too late.

His joy feels like a fluffy blanket, as if she can wrap herself up in that cheery smile and enthusiasm; being with Adrien when he's unreserved and real is like pillowing herself down in bed on a Sunday morning when she has nothing to do but bask in a warm sunbeam that floods her body with heat, but never hits her eyes, leaving her toasty and swaddled in the inoffensive darkness.

She teaches him to check the eggs before selecting a box, just to make sure they're not broken; reviews expiry dates; guides him through packing heavy items in the bottom of the cart. Because he knows nothing, or, better to say, because he was deprived of teachers, she has to try to remember all the little things that are instinct or that seem obvious.

Nearing the end of their shopping trip, they have to stroll down the last aisle, just because Adrien's curious and doesn't want to leave before checking the cooking-ware, sandwich bags, tin-foil, and other supplies.

In an instant, he breaks away from her, racing towards one of the distant shelves to photograph something with his cell phone, pluck up the item in question, and the scurry back to her.

Standing before her, he holds the little item out to her like a beaming child presenting his mommy – _No, brain. Do not think about being Adrien's mommy!_ – a picture of a sloppily-drawn stick-figure alongside his puppy and a jagged yellow crayon sun.

And what he's holding...

“Look at this, Marinette! It's hilarious!” His fingers trace the carved wooden edges as she uses every ounce of _Ladybug_ in her to subdue her insubordinate eyes, keep her gaze from falling from that... thing to some... other thing that's a little lower.

“Yeah...” Not something she can commit to.

“I'd love to have it on my bedside table!” He clutches the object in his hands to his chest with such childish glee that she has to strain to keep her fake smile from dropping into a genuine Ladybug-smirk or a leer so lewd that she'd probably scar the poor boy for life. “It's just so silly!”

“Oh, really? Why's that?” His.. _bed_. Oh Jesus tap-dancing Christ in heaven. Surely he doesn't-

“Well, it's so hard to get up for my four AM session on the treadmill before breakfast, or an early morning photoshoot. I just know that if I could wake up to this-” he taps the bold lettering on the item in his hands - “I'd get out of bed with a smile each day!”

Yeah. That checks out. Who wouldn't want to wake up to... _that_.

And how can she deny it?

“So, do you want to add it to the cart?”

“Can we?” he breathes as if he doesn't understand – as if the idea of being able to get something that he actually wants, picking the item off the shelf and putting it into a shopping cart, is some kind of mysterious voodoo magic that can make dreams a reality.

She smiles because of course he can. He's just too beautiful and pure, looking at her with those puppy-dog eyes, even if her thirsty wiggling butt is anything, well, but.

“Absolutely, Adrien. Just put it in the cart and we'll pay for it along with everything else.”

He does, and they do, Adrien proving surprisingly adept at figuring out correct change.

Before they leave, Adrien insists that he help two elderly ladies carry their grocery bags to their car. They call him _such a sweet young man_ and it's adorable and wholesome – the way he smiles so bashfully at the praise while scooping up all their purchases effortlessly.

He even asks if they'll be alright when they get home, and they assure him that a kind neighbor will help them unload their bags.

Every day, she finds a new reason to love him.

“A keeper,” the once likely-strawberry-blonde woman says as Marinette walks with her to drop off their cart.

“What?”

“When you find someone with a heart that big, you marry her.” She looks over to the other woman standing alongside Adrien as he shifts the blanket and spare tire in the women's trunk to make room for the last bag. “Or him, in your boyfriend's case.”

Her mouth motors ahead without her brain as she smashes the shopping cart into the loading area.

“I- be not my husfriend!”

She's a spaz, but the elderly woman doesn't seem to mind.

“He's not your boyfriend?”

Hearing it confirmed actually cuts deep.

“No.” She winces.

“You'd better tell him that.” The woman's sardonic side-eye has butterflies bursting in her guts.

Not that she has any if her attempts to confess to her not-husfriend are anything to go by.

Old people are nice, weird, and scary all at once.

* * *

Her papa and mamma take some of the pressure off when they actually try to make the cookies. Initially, she frowns at their interruption, so much like their nosiness when she and Adrien were practicing for their Ultimate Mecha Strike tournament, but she forgives them, and thanks them for their perceptiveness, almost immediately.

With his hand to Adrien's shoulder, her papa walks him through the steps for making cookies, letting him make mistakes and then telling him that it's okay. Mistakes are okay. It's how we learn.

Occasionally, he steps in to show Adrien how to measure the right amounts, scrapes the sides of the bowl to make sure that all the flour is mixed, or set the stove.

Beaming up at her papa when her rotund teddy-bear of a father says that he did _well_ , Adrien breaks her heart worse than he could by rejecting her.

He isn't here for a date; isn't here for her, at least not for her alone.

It's hard not to cry.

He's here for a family.

The family he doesn't have.

After they mix up the dough and spoon it out onto a greased cookie tray, Adrien slips the sheet into the oven before starting up the timer.

While they wait, even though she knows that you shouldn't really eat raw cookie dough, she slips him a half-spoonful she secreted away. What's a first time baking cookies if you don't sneak a little taste?

He plucks the spoon from her hand, his eyebrows knitting together, but they unfurrow themselves while he chews, crunching down on a few chocolate chips with blissfully slow motions of his fine jaw.

Because it soothes her, she watches him as _he_ watches the cookies spread out, plump up, and bake. There's self-recrimination of course, not for staring as he soaks in the experience, but for being guilty of what she accused Chloe of mentally.

 _She's_ taken so much for granted, and leaves him with his baking cookies for just a minute to go give her papa and mamma massive hugs and thank them for being her parents and, even more than that, _good_ parents and good people.

Golden and chewy, the cookies are as perfect as anything she's ever eaten, and she has to pound back two whole glasses of milk to wash down the first bite alone because...

“ _Mmmm._ ” The throaty, luscious purr that builds up like a titanic eruption and then spills out of Adrien's chocolate-chip cookie stained lips...

Scratch that.

Marinette pours herself another glass of milk.

Only one cookie is permitted by the limitations of his diet, so Marinette has to watch him slowly making out with that sinful hunk of butter, flour, and chocolate for agonizing minutes. A partially-eaten cookie trembles in her fingers, held half-way to her mouth.

Well, now she has a food fetish.

She can live with that.

At the behest of his ~~father~~ sperm-donor, who made known his expectations regarding Adrien's schedule today by way of Nathalie, Adrien leaves only a few minutes after he finishes.

In the doorway, he bows to her mamma, offering her his thanks, Marinette assumes, in what seems to be smoothly flawless Mandarin, and then is nearly crushed by her papa. For a moment, Adrien tenses while being squeezed, something folds and breaks and is built up all at once in his face, but she doesn't know what any of _it_ is or what it means, and then he's hugging back so hard that her papa's face blooms red under Adrien's shocking strength.

Then, when released, Adrien puts his hand to his heart. Minute perturbations of his eyes and fingers leave her breathless because he looks ... kind of like her and it's beautiful to see him flushing and awkward. It's not that she likes to watch him squirm; it's that there's a joy to the experience of him when he's being genuine.

If only she could find the courage to be that honest.

He feels safe enough to be awkward and _real_.

Awkward just like her when he darts forward to kiss her now-purple cheek while her eyes blow wide. His hand is soft and gentle because he is when he gives hers a squeeze.

“Thank you.” A nod to each of them in turn leads him back to Marinette. “Especially you, Marinette. I- I really had a wonderful time. Do... do you think we could do something like this again?”

Hopefully, her smile and nod are not half as psychotic as they are vigorous.

That night, as Marinette is wiggling into her pajama bottoms, she receives a text from...

> **My Husfriend:** Hi, Marinette. I should have shared this photo I took in the store. It looks great by my bed. Send you a pic of that too.

Marinette flicks open the image, stares, and then slouches off to bed to dream of Ladybug passing by Adrien Agreste's window, only to catch sight of the ridiculous... invitation and order beside his bed.

She shivers under her covers.

Ladybug would always heed the request of an Adrien Agreste in... need.

On the floor beside her sewing desk, her cellphone lies where she dropped it after she loosed a little scream on seeing the second image: a selfie of Adrien in a form-fitting tank top that she would probably have to scrape off it was so tight and spandex sleep-shorts that conformed to every rippling inch of his thighs. With a peace sign firmly in place, her husfriend, who was possibly the man who was trying to kill her by looking like that, was standing next to his bed alongside his purchase.

In hideously alluring black, white, wood, and red, it leers at her from her bedroom floor before her cell phone screen finally winks out, tempting her...

 _Commanding_ her...

Maybe, Marinette decides, it's a good thing that the Agreste mansion has blast shutters to keep out... thirsty intruders.


	2. Sauce for the Goose...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adrien escapes his gilded prison to enjoy some time at the bakery, but he finds Marinette's busy with work in the kitchen. 
> 
> He doesn't mind watching. No. He doesn't mind _watching_ at all.
> 
> Why does this feel karmic?

There are few things in the world more affirming than a genuine smile.

Having seen and conjured thousands of affected ones in his photoshoots, Adrien knows that to be true. A child smiling over his dripping ice-cream cone, slopping up his face as sticky trails run down his small hand. An elderly man bouncing his grandson on his knee. His Lady, stifling giggles because she's laughing at one of his puns and doesn't want to give him the satisfaction.

Or his fellow students when some concept finally slots into place in their minds, as it does now with Free Body Diagrams for Mylene and Ivan. As the girl kisses the heavily-blushing hulk on his cheek and they both thank Adrien shyly, he thrills.

Love is beautiful, everything, and _seeing_ people in love is pretty great too.

And _that_ is what transforms school into something truly wonderful: _people_.

Nino taught him what it meant to have a friend; someone who sacrificed and put your needs on par with his. Someone who was interested in you and accommodated you and your desires.

Just settling in next his best friend, as he does now that he has finished helping Mylene, makes him warm.

The feeling only intensifies as he watches his bro lean into his desk and reach down to hold Alya's hand, while she jots down her answers on her physics worksheet. It feels... weird to see his friends happy. Maybe that's happiness itself, but of a different sort than anything he'd experienced with his father.

When it comes to fandom appreciation and her snarky teasing, Alya nudges and prods the slumbering Chat Noir, calling forth a little bit of fire every now and again.

Chloe hurts him, but there glimmers potential that gives him hope.

Max pushes him to be better, to try to keep up.

But _Marinette_ makes his stomach twist and bubble with warm, watery friendship.

The world weighs just a little bit less when she's near, and he sighs and smiles at the feeling as she walks into class... or, rather, trips over her own feet in a cacophonous clatter of books and poor smooshed pastries that has him rushing to help her and Ms. Mendeleiev launching into a screed about disrespect, and tardiness, and -

A Chat Noir snarl bubbles right out of the twisting butterflies that had crept up to his heart as he helps Marinette to her feet and an arm curls around her waist protectively. Poor girl is ripe-tomato-red with embarrassment over having been called out.

“Madam!”

The entire class, hushed, stares at him, rather than the now trembling girl in his arms. She must be on the verge of crying, if those shudders are anything to go by, so the fire burns too hot for him to even care who's watching.

“According to Collège Françoise Dupont's code of ethics, section seven point one on the conduct of teachers towards students, teachers are to mete out disciplinary actions in accordance with the principles of respect. Do you think that you're adhering to that?”

Stiff. Formal and precise; years of tutors' drills and demands for meticulously-accurate recitation, and his father's exacting standards pay off. He'd memorized parts of the school codes while laying in bed, dreaming about the day he would walk inside Collège Françoise Dupont as a student.

Nino's eyes are blown wide as he stares, slack-jawed and hands limp on his desk; it's the same kind stupefaction that he'd shown when first being dismissed with cool and calculating efficiency by Gabriel Agreste.

Most of the other students share that expression.

With an upturning of her nose, Ms. Mendeleiev returns to the whiteboard and resumes lecturing while Adrien helps Marinette scoop up her crushed box of chocolate-chip cookies.

A terrible waste, but – but maybe he can offer to help her make more, and he'd pay her back for these too, even if it's just an accident.  
  
It's the least he could do for a friend.

During a later, second group-work period, Alya gives him a fist-bump so hard that it nearly breaks his wrist.

Retreating while shaking the feeling back into his throbbing hand, he doesn't have to fake a smile, even through the pain, when a blushing Marinette, who is clearly still horribly embarrassed after being called out in front of class, looks him in the eyes.  
  
“Thank you, Adrien.” She blinks and worries her hands before her smile steals his heart away with a furry of fiery-hot feelings of friendship. “It really – really means a lot to have someone stick up for you.”

“Of course, Marinette. Anything for a friend.”

His belly is filled with butterflies, their wings like little razors. Fluttery warm paper-cuts bloom, choke the air out of his throat, bulging outwards, flesh straining and searing, when she smiles at him so sadly.

Doesn't... doesn't she _want_ to be his friend?

The very thought is intolerable, that the sweetest, kindest, and cutest person in the class might not.

Was she just being kind when she invited him over to her bedroom for couponing?

No. She doesn't have a deceitful bone in her body. Not Marinette. Maybe something had happened, or he'd run afoul of her because of some misapprehension regarding “proper” behaviour between friends, or at least acquaintances.

If so, he'll fix it.

Anything to squish those riotous butterflies.

Anything to see her smile happily again.

* * *

It's Saturday morning before Adrien can even try to battle back the hoard of bugs that are flitting about inside his guts, turbulent and eviscerating.

While it takes some cajoling on Plagg's part, Adrien eventually ceases to sulk while making vain attempts at completing the Mandarin homework that Nathalie had assigned. It had been impossible for him to make headway as his listless eyes rolled towards the sunshine pouring in through his oh-so-tempting bay windows.

Plagg is a terrible influence; bad to the bone, if he had a single one inside that squishy little body.

Chat Noir doesn't have any trouble making his way across the Parisian rooftops, in his typical style, to arrive at the Dupain-Cheng boulangerie patisserie. A quick alley-transformation, and he's strolling in through the front door before he even realizes.

 _Stupid_.

He really should have called ahead, just to ask to make sure that he wasn't troubling anyone by visiting. Of course he is. He should leave before anyone sees him, and he's about to turn on his heel and make a quick retreat back to his room when he's crushed into the wall.

Not literally, of course, but there's just no space inside the busy shop.

It's not the customers, though.

Tom Dupain is simply the largest man that Adrien has ever seen, bustling about the confined serving area before slowing to a stop and easing himself down on one knee to serve the next customer in line. Gregarious by nature, he's schooling his smile, keeping it gentle and easy.

Even now, kneeling on the floor as he dotes on a little girl in a yellow sundress, who peeks out from behind her indulgent mother's leg and asks for a croissant in a shy whisper, he's massive.

“A croissant? Why only the finest, flakiest of croissant will do for such a polite little lady,” Tom assures, voice slow, sugary, and clear like liquid honey when he holds out a curved hunk of still warm buttery bliss and waits for as long as the little girl needs.

A second passes.

Five.

Tension. Pins prickling under his skin. His weight shifts from one foot to the next. The little girl's unblinking stare is awed, focused centre mass of Tom Dupain's bulging frame. From the little tremors of the mother hands, she's on the verge of taking the pastry and apologizing.

Brows folding, going cross-eyed, Tom wiggles his thick moustache to silent amazement. A baby-tooth-gaped smile blooms, letting spill the delighted squeals of a child who's all bouncy courage and giggles, scooping up the croissant.

Something's pricking at Adrien's eyes. He doesn't quite know what it is because he feels it, but doesn't let himself think through it while he waits in the back of the store. An old philosophy tutor had forced him to reflect on the implications of Socrates' assertion that “The unexamined life is not worth living" but-

His fingermails are too blunt to truly dig into his palms. He settles for a clenching squeeze, as if he could crush his own hands.

Sometimes, you don't want to examine your own life.

Tom is a massive hulk of thick suet, rounded and jovial like Santa Claus, stretched over powerful musculature. It's possible that Mr. Dupain devotes some of his limited free time to strength and resistance training and if his diet wasn't quite so indulgent, he might even give Adrien's bodyguard a run for his money.

Both the gaunt and almost haggard Gabriel, fine bones popping from cheeks that are all pulled-taut skin that has never seen a laugh-line and might never have to iron one out, and the Gorilla himself are physically larger than Mr. Dupain, but as Adrien watches him work, it's the swelling personality that seems to fill the room.

Tom - Mr. Dupain radiates _big and warm_.

Like... Marinette. She's pint-sized, and still a room seems a little too wide, a little too cold before she arrives.

Her father is much the same. Even standing here, watching him return to the till and beckon Adrien over to him.

“Adrien.” The boom of Tom's voice is stifled to a whisper as the little girl trundles off, mouthing her croissant and waving. Simply adorable, and Adrien's grinning as she goes. “Lovely to see you.”

“Hello, sir.” A deferential nod as Adrien sidles up to the counter. “It's a pleasure to see you too."

“Of course. Did you come by for another baking lesson with Marinette? Maybe dinner? Sabine is going to be making brazed pork balls, if you're interested.”

“Actually, I just stopped in to see Marinette,” Adrien clarifies, ducking his eyes at the older man's spreading grin. “She didn't know that I was going to be dropping by, but I was in the neighbourhood and thought I'd say hi.”

You bloody liar.

“Oh, she'd love to see you!” the rotund baker says, leading on the counter with a twinkle in his eyes.

“She's not busy, is she?” He wouldn't want to be a bother. A burden.

“We needed her help to fill an order today, but she should be almost finished. You can head into the kitchen, if you'd like to wait while she polishes off the last of her work.” With a wide and flamboyant sweep of his arm, not so different from a Chat Noir bow that makes... _Tom_ even more awesome, the baker ushers him into the small kitchen.

The small kitchen that's completely, totally, breathlessly taken up by _Marinette_.

A tremble.

Tom turns back to attend to a frazzled father dragging in rambunctious twins, but that only registers somewhere deep in Adrien's subconscious.

Oh, God.

Even though he's standing to her side, Marinette hasn't seen him, too fixated on the rhythmic progression she's making. She gets like that. Too focused when she's buried in her work, and it makes him want to creep up behind her and poke her between the shoulder blades so that she'll start and whirl, yelping in that mousy little way of hers and flushing beat red in shock, lips pouty with concentration and so kis-

So _funny_!

That's it. Just _hilarious_.

Completely funny like the feeling in his belly, a million tickly fingers running along his insides.

 _Hahahaha_.

He's laughing mentally.

 _So_ funny.

Right.

The flow of her hands is atypically precise, each thrust-wiggle-jerk setting her shoulders rolling as she side-steps in time to the nodding of her head.

His gut-butterflies are getting agitated, all warm and tingling. Heat blooms and floods in a way that makes him shift in growing discomfort while he watches her working, in her element. She's all grace and easy confidence and a little bit of loosed comfortable silliness and it's kind of like looking at Ladybug when she soars so high and so fast that he's panting and gasping to keep pace, chasing after her like the shadow cast by her sun.

A hand presses to his cheek to test the radiating warmth of his skin.

She's listening to music while she works. Listening and singing.

Pigtails flop and bounce to the tune that's churning while she mouths the words that he can just make out as they spill out of the earbuds.

Apparently, it's a song about a wholesome trip to the beach!

> Talk to me, baby  
> I'm goin' blind from this sweet, sweet craving, whoa-oh  
> Let's lose our minds and go fucking crazy  
> I-I-I-I-I keep on hopin' we'll eat cake by the ocean

A wholesome trip to the beach _with cake_!

“F-word” aside.

That sounds nice. The cake and _oh god_ not the... the _f-wording_!

The song has a good rhythm, too, Adrien decides as he leans against the back wall to wait until Marinette finishes her work. Hands in his pockets, he nods along with the girl who's now ... butt-wiggling. Now that he's behind her, he can tell.

 _See_.

She does that a lot, and it's unique to her – the way that she sinks down, knees cocked and angled outwards by thirty degrees, and the shudders burst like a playful kitten, thrumming with eager energy as she stalks a fluffy artificial feather at the end of a teaser toy, just on the verge of pouncing.

But now, there's a smooth confidence in the mechanical progression down the line, offset by the squirm.

Yes. Offset by the ... _squirm_.

Adrien swallows.

He shouldn't be thinking about ... squirming flesh.

So instead, he focuses on something safe: her work.

It doesn't help.

He flames up.

It's worse. So much worse.

But why? He shakes his head, slapping the pocket of his tight and scratchy jeans to stifle Plagg's squeaky-demonic guffaws. It just doesn't make any sense.

[What's so weird about Marinette working in the bakery kitchen?](https://video.twimg.com/ext_tw_video/1355240479496036357/pu/vid/582x270/EnNii-vyAOnLonrA.mp4?tag=12)

[A mystery, to be sure.](https://video.twimg.com/ext_tw_video/1355240479496036357/pu/vid/582x270/EnNii-vyAOnLonrA.mp4?tag=12)

[Slow gyrations swirl the taut flesh within those skinny jeans with every half-step along the line of pastries as she jabs each one in turn, plunging deep into the preexisting holes and forcing them to spread wide their tender insides.](https://video.twimg.com/ext_tw_video/1355240479496036357/pu/vid/582x270/EnNii-vyAOnLonrA.mp4?tag=12)

Even, measured squeezes run in slow-motion thanks to a rush of adrenaline, the familiar Chat Noir fight-or-flight-or-flirt instinct that makes everything torpid. Languid, so that he can see the shifting pressure of her fingers down the bag that forces out thick spurts of heavy cream into one empty pastry and then the next, and then-

Then, a miscalculation.

A slip.

Blood that he can't taste; a sting he can't feel, when he gnaws the inside of his cheek.

A _flood_ , one bursting to the point that the effusion of thick white goo tumbles over the edges and drips down in clumps to the baking sheet.

What... what is this feeling?

He's wincing. The butt-wiggle is picking up its pace as Marinette squirms, undulates, her shirt stretching over her shoulders as she leans in a little deeper and how did she get such sinuously chiselled traps that curved down her upper spine?

Is the oven on in here?

The butterflies that had taken up residence in his chest are gone.

Adrien slicks sweat from his forehead and bites his lip as she does something that's more of a circular flick with her rear than a wiggle.

The butterflies are now in his stomach.

Shivers force his hands into his pockets as he tries to smile, and finds that he already is.

The butterflies are no longer armed with razor blades.

> Let's lose our minds and go fucking crazy  
> I-I-I-I-I keep on hopin' we'll eat cake by the ocean

That sounds... really tasty. Maybe he and Marinette can – can make cake together and – a butt _swirl_ and _jiggle_ – and- and...

What was he thinking about?

He licks his swollen lip. Marinette stabs the pointed tip of her cream-filled bag into the last of the pastries and it's obvious.

All that tasty cream.

He wants to eat cake on the beach so badly.

Rich, buttery cake that they bake together.

As friends!

Maybe she's his friend.

While he's contemplating potential cake recipes and wondering whether the procedure is similar to the one for chocolate chip cookies because he needs to think about something else right now to distract himself from whatever is causing him to get a little... uncomfortable to the point that his eyes slam shut.

No help there.

Marinette squeezes out the last of the white ooze.

He knows. He can _hear_ it.

Hear the sputtering liquid-squelch that lingers and resounds in the air for so long that it seems to echo inside his gut.

His brow pinches up and his legs cross tight as he whimpers like a puppy that had just been kicked.

The butterflies are... In a bad place. Doing _bad_ things.

_Why?!_

What is wrong with him?!

“Adrien?”

His eyelids peel back, and the cacophonous riot of butterflies, as a swarm, slams face-first into a windshield on a luxury automobile travelling at 90 miles an hour above the posted Autobahn speed limit.

Icing bag floppy in her skilled, gloved hands, having loosed its entire load of rich cream, she boggles at him and he's a bloody heel for surprising her like this!

Shock and concern mingle in a way that grabs his heart and fondles and caresses it gently while tugging up a purr at the adorable flush. There's nothing attractive about it, though. Absolutely not!

The way she smears her face with a few streaks of cream when she scratches her cheek.

Her tightly-tied apron, hugging the thin curves of her torso.

Those blown-wide blue eyes.

None of that should make him feel like that cat who got the, well, cream.

No. It shouldn't.

Abort and play it off!

“Hey, Marinette!” That's not a croak, is it? “It's great to see you.”  
  
“Adrien, you-” she coughs. “I how much did you see?”  
  
“See of what?”

“I mean, you didn't see, uh- heh!” Her cheeks pinch up with the blink and it makes his grubby paws itch to squeeze them. “I – I just hope you weren't waiting too long, that's all.”

While lies never hurt anyone, right?

“Oh, no! I walked in just when you stopped- uh _creaming_ , and- which looks great by the way!” Amazing work with the deflection. It's a totally natural transition like he has just written out a full, smooth sentence concept development in place of an ugly stock transitional phrase in an essay.

Totally.

From the way that she's grinning at him, torquing the icing bag between her hands, it looks like she's debating whether to give his paper a C-- or D++.

He's never gotten a D before. It makes him feel dirty, but-

Tossing the icing bag onto the counter, she's stripping off the gloves and shoving him out the door, her eyes clenched shut so that he has to pull his arm to his chest and re-angle his body to avoid smacking face-first into the door-frame.

Does feeling dirty also feel good sometimes and how does that work exactly?

“Coming in just a minute!” Half drowning out that scream that sinks right into his gut and breathes life into the butterflies again, for whatever reason, the door slams shut behind him with a resounding crash.

All of this is very confusing.

He has a headache.

He waits for a few moments just outside the door because that's the polite thing to do... he assumes for some reason. A muffled groan tumbles through the wood, followed by a hissed and plaintive cry.

“'ki... ugly mess... never ... 'ove... now!”

Something like a door, rotating on squeaky hinges as it's opened and closed over and over again, responds. She must be putting away her tools and cleaning up.

Coming here to bother such a good friend, all so that he can be so selfish, try to soothe his aching fear that she – that she doesn't really like him – was the mistake of an ass.

Before he can turn on his heel to retreat, Marinette emerges, ripping open the door like she's about to start sprinting, and hot damn does she look good with her hair down, and how did he not notice that even slightly greasy and tangled from a day's work in the kitchen, it's still a lustrously gorgeous river of silk that his parched hands would very much like to drink from.

... weird thought, brain.

No matter. Marinette's speaking, face scrubbed red and dripping with water like her flailing hands. Droplets of water smack him in the face.

“Adrien, I'm so sorry about just tossing you out here! I'm such a terrible host and I should have been paying attention so that you weren't just standing there waiting for me to finish that order my parents had me working on - I mean it's not like I could have stopped working because it's _work_ and I have a job, not that it's anything like your job which is way harder, not that there's anything hard about what was going on and so I shouldn't be complaining when I'm so easy – uh, I ah, I mean that _it's_ so easy and not that I'm easy when things are hard because what does that even _mean_ , right?”

“Right?” Adrien offers to the panting girl with the frizzy hair. Nothing easy about Marinette- except _everything_ because she's so supportive that his burdens just seem to lift of his shoulders when he's in her presence. Like now, for instance, as he takes her hand thumb to her knuckles, and squeezes to let her know that it really is alright. “It's perfectly fine, Marinette. No worries. Like I said, I just arrived.”

“I- okay, but, uh, I'm sorry that I'm such a mess than.”

“Just a little flour, and a smidge of cream,” he assures, because it's a good mess. A mess that suits her because she's warm and still dusted with a little bit of flour, smelling of warm sweetness and a home. It's not just the bakery. “It's good to get a little messy. That just means that you're working hard, right? Besides, it looked tasty.”

What did that mean?

Blood burns under her cheeks, and he's mirroring her. “I- you what? Looked... tasty?” she gapes.

What indeed looked tasty? All those doughnuts and cream is the healthy, responsible and completely-totally-wholly-100%-lock sure metaphysical certainty true answer.

“All that cream on your face.” He points to her still flushed and dripping cheek, scrubbed clean. “You must have enjoyed a little taste.”

“Oh, yeah. Uh. Tasty-face. That's good. I'd- it'd be nothing compared to you, though."

“Ha! I definitely would get cream everywhere – all over myself. I'd be a real mess.” He pokes his cheek. “That would be disgusting.”

“What? No! Pfftt.” Her cute pink lips motorboat, blowing out a raspberry as she flops a hand towards him, waving him off. “Your face would be totally tasty!”  
  
“Oh?”  
  
“Yeah!” she chirps with the eagerness of child. “I'd eat your tasty face any day!”

That's strangely sweet, in a weird way, even as she winces for reasons he can't quite understand. It was a compliment, right?

“Thanks, Marinette,” Adrien says, putting a hand to her warm and well-muscled shoulder to comfort her. “That means a lot to me.”

He shouldn't squeeze, but he does, just testing the musculature. Who knew working in a bakery could leave you so wiry?

A few seconds pass before he realizes that she's staring at his hand like it's a hideous poisonous snake that's jammed its fangs into her flesh and is currently pumping her veins full of venom.

He rips his hand away, an apology on the cusp of tumbling from his lips because he knows so, so well what it's like to be touched when you don't want it, and he should know better, but she cuts him off by threading her arm with his, face set with that look of focused determination that makes his heart go pitter-patter.

Because it reminds him of Ladybug.

Ladybug whom he loves.

And no one else.

He _only_ loves Ladybug. His pretty, pig-tailed, blushing everyd-

Nope.

“So, Adrien, what are you doing here?“ The question begins in a rush and picks up pace as she drags him up to her room in a sprint, as if she's trying to outrun something. “Not that I don't want you here! I'm just wondering, you know?!”

They're at the hatch to her room. That seems to be an invitation for him to stay. Gladly accommodated and happily accepted regardless of the consequences of his failing to complete his Mandarin homework.

“Oh, well, I was really just hoping to get out of the mansion and see a – a friend.” Does the hopeful tone seem too desperate for reasons that he can't understand? The softening of her eyes as she curls her strong and calloused fingers around his wrist, thick so that her fingers are too short to touch, should calm his beating heart, but it's in his throat, slamming away.

“Then, I- I'm really flattered that you thought to come see me.”

“Of course, Marinette. I mean, you are my friend, right?” Why does it hurt so much to ask?

She's still holding his wrist, more fiercely, though, like she's not letting go until he tears away. “Adrien, you're one of my best friends, and I'm happy to see you. If you need to get out for a while, or even if you just want to chat, I'll _always_ be here for you.”

“Really?” There's a tickling in the back of his throat, and suddenly, he's matching her grip, their wrists locked. Her fingers are rough, scraping. It feels good. “Y- you really don't mind my bothering you?”  
  
“It's _not_ a bother. _Never_.”

Why does it hurt so much, and hurt so _good_ , to hear that?

It abates to a throb, pulsating in time with his heart, when he lets go of her hand with a pat to her knuckles that he wants to kiss because that's the gentlemanly thing to do. He has to let go so that she can climb the ladder into her room. When she mounts the landing, she reaches down a hand to help him up the last step, a grin showing off pearly teeth that offset the rosiness of her cheeks.

He takes it, and lets her lift him up with shocking strength.

Her loft is warm and bright, a little cramped with a mess of half-finished designs and projects, but she deflates, taking up just enough space to give him room.

As he gushes over the work, and offers some judiciously-phrased critiques based on what he's learnt vicariously from fashion consultants, his own father, and dozens of stylists and designers, and then settles in to play some Mario Cart, he realizes it.

The room is still full; he's crushed to the walls, cozy like he's snuggled under a fluffy comforter on a cold winter morning, safe and secure from the chill.

But it's not her. Not only her.

Somehow, perhaps without even realizing it, she's given him enough space so that they fill the room together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My that took a long time to produce. Inspiration and motivation for writing has been quite scant in recent weeks, but I seem to be getting back into the habit. That said, I feel incredibly rusty with this chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts about... cream filling. 
> 
> Thank you for taking the time to read. 
> 
> Oh, and be sure to watch the video linked in the story. It provides... proper context and is completely safe for work/a G-rated story.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathalie regularly surveys Adrien's bedroom for any signs of untoward behavior.
> 
> Nathalie is also not paid enough to deal with this crap.

Nathalie Sancoeur knows that her responsibilities far exceed those that are appropriate to the role of a personal assistant, largely due to the fact that she's facilitating a magical-terrorist in his regular assaults against a major European city that have escalated to threats of inciting global thermonuclear war.

Today, as she walks into the dining room of the Agreste estate, she'd take the thermonuclear war.

Serving as a sidekick or henchwoman to a Machiavellian helmet-headed super villain, however well Gabriel fills out that tailored purple suit, is no fun whatsoever, and more than she signed on for in her well itemized and meticulously-crafted contract.

It's better than serving as an intermediary between Gabriel and his son, especially when it's incumbent on her to inform her ~~hot~~ boss of a recent discovery.

"Sir, I believe that your son is gay."

To his credit, although the assertion was phrased in the most direct of fashions, and thus the most deliberately provocative because Nathalie should _not_ be the one dealing with this shit, Gabriel does not do a spit-take.

Instead, he pauses, mid-sip from his “World's Best Dad” mug, which Nathalie is dismayed to see he still hasn't realized was a gag gift from his employees on Father's Day, and then sets down his drink on the dinning room table.

"Why would you believe that?” Gabriel asks, brow cocked in that delightfully angular way that makes Nathalie a little watery. “Has he spoken to you about his orientation?”

"Although it may seem late in his adolescence for him to realize his orientation, his emotional development was likely retarded by-"

Gabriel's withering glare over the now-folded edge of his morning newspaper is enough to strip paint.

Tact would behoove her.

She does _not_ get paid enough to mollycoddle temperamental adult-children, even if she does have a little, ever-so-tiny mommy kink.

This is not the fun kind of mollycoddling.

_Sigh. I'm giving myself another raise._

"What I meant, sir, is that Adrien has only begun to socialize with his peers as a result of your wise parenting strategies designed to preserve him from ... toxic influences."

 _Like_ _Lila_ , but she doesn't say that.

She doesn't want to have to go through the trouble of firing herself only to rehire herself.

"Thus, it stands to reason that he might only be awakening to his interests now."

"Somewhat reasonable.” Gabriel's countenance falls, frowning, analytical as he no doubt contemplates impacts on company stock prices and public relations. That calculating, emotionlessly-mechanical gleam leaves her hands itching to tug at her collar. Callous stone-top Gabriel is kind of hot.

“However, you know better than to waste my time with mere speculations. What is your evidence?"

She clears her throat and looks down at her tablet screen. "He has steadfastly refused all advances, both requests for dates and propositions from objectively attractive co-workers and classmates, rankles under the arrangements that you've attempted to make with business partners' daughters, and has only ever requested that we allow... Mister Lahiffe into his room."

"The hat boy?" The aloof expression breaks into one of pure disgust.

"Yes, sir.” Irrepressible, a smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “The hat boy."

"Conceptually repugnant, but circumstantial at best. He may simply be asexual – or aromantic."

It is actually a legitimate surprise that Gabriel knows what those things are.

"There is one other critical piece of evidence that seems to render those possibilities unlikely."

"Oh, and what might that be?"

Nathalie flicks to the saved images on her tablet and reorients it in her hands to show off the photograph she took this morning of the pile of magazines on Adrien's bedside table, left untouched so as to ensure that he would never know that she had been snooping on Gabriel's order.

"I see." Gabriel frowns, setting down his paper and taking a slow sip of his morning coffee – black, like his heart. "Please be so kind as to terminate miss Rossi's contract."

"Uh, sir?" Nathalie blinks, unable to maintain her typical stoic reserve. A pinching of her brow adds to a store of wrinkles that have been building up over the years due to stress. "Of course, but why?"

"Sexual harassment to keep my son in line is one thing, Nathalie, but I'm not about to let her continue to throw herself at my son if it threatens to undermine his psycho-sexual development, or force him to feign heterosexuality." Shaking his head as he rises, he fiddles with his cufflinks as if he's tightening screws, ratcheting his own joints into place. "After all, my own father was hardly supportive of my entering into a-" a subtle sneer breaks out – "' _gay'_ field such as fashion design. I'm not going to put my son through anything similar to that."

_I am so hot for you right now._

Blushing in a way that makes him look even more like a tasty candy cane that she wants to eat like a rooster, Gabriel begins to adjust his cravat, casting his gaze about the room, apparently more interested in studying the drapery than returning Nathalie's heated stare.

_Oh, I said that out loud._

Apparently, her boss is even hotter as a good parent than a bad one.

Of course, given that was her definition of being a good parent, it was probably for the best that she was not in line to become Adrien's step-mother any time soon.

* * *

Baffling as his father's acquiescing to requests to be allowed to see his friends on a regular basis may be, Adrien is not one to question or complain about his good fortune as he sits at his work desk, waiting for Nino to show up for a Friday evening video game session.

The limitation on the sex of his permitted visitors is unfortunate in the extreme, as he _so_ wants to give Marinette a tour of his room, but understandable in light of the Agreste PR firm's crash course on sex education and safety when it came to his fans. His father is just worried about him, clearly.

What did all the other kids in his class do without a devoted and caring PR agent to teach them the facts of life?

They must have been forced to remain in utter ignorance.

Still, if only Marinette was allowed to visit, they could have a few laughs over his “Eat Rooster” sign that remains perched upon his nightstand: a silent guardian, a watchful protector, and a ray of sunshine each morning. It's nice to wake up to a big, angry rooster, staring him right in the face.

But weird stomach butterflies aside, he really wants her there because then, surely, his room would feel all warm and cozy.

The thought comes unbidden and irrepressible.

What would it be like to wake up to _Marinette_ being there each morning?

Just how hot- _Warm_! How _warm_ would his room be then?

That-

That isn't something he should be thinking about, so he slaps his cheek to drive the somehow commingling images of a butt-wiggle and a cream-filled doughnut out of his mind.

It doesn't work.

He slaps himself again – opened palmed, hard, and merciless – while Plagg groans at his suffering, a sympathetic grumble that makes him feel a little bit less alone in the travails of his life.

At least he's permitted to bring his bro over, and Luka too, on occasion, although that request had been met with a few strange questions about his feelings and the complexities of maintaining more than one relationship.

Was it really so odd that he wanted more than one friend? Sometimes two at the same time? There was plenty of room.

They could fit.

He'd told Nathalie as much when she asked.

For whatever reason, she'd choked and bloomed red like a rose throughout that entire impassioned speech and given him leave to – to have either, or- or _both_ , of his... friends in his room, as long as they were safe.

Adrien had assured her that, yes, they were using protection, and that had seemed to placate his substitute mother, who really seemed to be trying her best.

Granted, he hadn't been entirely honest. Just a few little lies.

Using protection took all the fun out of things, the thrill of bare flesh and the danger. All the spontaneity and exhilaration were sucked out and crumpled into a wad to be lobbed into his waste basket, crippling the mood, the spiral of exotic, forbidden energy that caught you up and tempted you to embrace the taboo.

What was the point of having a zipline or climbing wall if you had to take ten minutes to strap on the harness and proper gloves and headgear?

Nino might want a ride without protection, so Adrien really should finish off the homework that had been assigned earlier today. That way, they'll have the entire night free for fun.

* * *

Nino Lahiffe had never been disposed to excesses of emotion. He was known throughout his youth as an easy-going mediator to whom other children could turn, when required, in those cases when they were levelheaded enough to not simply resort to name-calling, hair-pulling, and fisticuffs.

Rare was the time that some slur or slight, even a few truly vile assertions about his heritage because children could be viciously cruel, actually got under his skin. That kind of loathing and acrimony simply seemed like too much work. Why become upset over jibes and taunts, accidents, bad fortune, or even deliberate malice?

In the end, letting them get to you would only give them greater power; stewing in anger, or being buffeted about by the whims of chance, was decidedly not zen, and Nino?

Nino was zen.

Except when it came to that despicable human-shaped pile of crap: Gabriel Agreste.

That man could go take a flying leap into an even larger pile of crap to try to wash off some of his own, worse crappiness because he was, like, the platonic form of crap – the crap that even the worst crap aspired to be – as far as Nino was concerned.

No one got under Nino's skin like a man _that_ emotionally-abusive to his son; even now, horsing around and playing video games, while smack-talking his bro, he can see the bruises.

But they're fading, just a little bit, as a tiny, spike blue shell arcs around the television screen before him and careens into his go-cart, sending Yoshi spinning while Nino curses to give his bro a hard time.

Not a real hard time, though. Not like his father who – who may not be as bad as all that after all, since he relented and has actually let Nino visit his friend. And that's exactly it. He's giving Adrien a hard time. _Just_ a friendly hard time. A glance towards the object on Adrien's desk. Yep. Just a friendly hard time between good bros.

“Ah, bro! The blue shell? Total weaksauce,” he chastises as Toad motors his way over the finish-line and Adrien fist-pumps.

That would also be Adrien giving _him_ a hard time, in accordance with the code of bros.

He should probably stop thinking about them giving each other hard times.

Adrien's face, flushed with delight as he mimes _banging_ finger-guns, is a little too rosy-red and cherubic, and they're in his bedroom alone which, given that he and Alya have had conversations about Marinette, Adrien, and free-passes, is more distressing than Nino had imagined it would be.

Apparently, Gabriel is not the only Agreste who can kind of get under his skin, which Adrien does when he rises to respond to a knock on the door to his bedroom, leaving Nino to _not_ stare at either the rooster or the rump roast.

Normally, it wouldn't be difficult to maintain a certain degree of decorum, but, well, Nino's seen the, uh, issue of some kind of gay porn magazine that's sitting on Adrien's desk, obviously “half” hidden to unveil the title article that Adrien _must_ have wanted him to see:

_50 Ways to Eat Cock._

Alya only knew two ways to ... prepare roosters.

Maybe they need some help. Was that Adrien's way of ... offering?

Adrien's voice from the door cuts into that thought like an electronic carving knife through turkey breast.

“Are you staying for dinner?”

It's at that point that Nino remembers that he's actually speaking with Adrien at the moment.

“Oh, uh. Sure! What do you have?” Nino croaks, watching Adrien express his thanks to Nathalie as she gives him the stink-eye in a way that feels like she's piercing right into his brain and sucking out all the lascivious thoughts.

“The chef's preparing roasted chicken breast with leeks and a mushroom Risotto.” Adrien ambles his way back into the room with a suspicious swagger of his hips that may or may not be something that he learnt as a model on the catwalk and thus may only accidentally be attempting to seduce his best friend. There's a slight reprieve when his bro flops face-first onto his bed, nearly tossing himself into his comforter like a flailing dog.

Thankfully, dinner with Alya's mother has taught him what a Risotto is.

“Sounds great.” A slightly wobbly thumbs up is thrown towards the bed, even though Adrien's face down. Face down. On the bed. He can't see, and that makes Nino feel just a tad stupid, but a shift in position shows off the thick highlights of Adrien's thighs and butt, so the thumbs up stays shakily in place. “I love chicken breast.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah!” That was probably a little bit too enthusiastic. “Most other meats are a little bit too greasy.”

"I don't know,” Adrien mumbles his comforter and is that a _butt-wiggle_?! Apparently, baking skills weren't the only thing that that Adrien had picked up from Marinette. “I've always really liked dark meat."

Dark meat?

The white meat with blonde hair is looking just a little bit too tempting at the moment, so he has to turn his head away to the-

Jesus! How had he missed that... that thing beside Adrien's bed: a wooden plank, propped up next to his alarm clock, featuring an etched bird with blue feathering, staring right into his soul and screaming his order so loudly that it's deafening the poor boy.

_EAT rooster!_

No.

_EAT ME!_

_Laugh, you idiot._

Nino obeys his brain, which, like his body, is feeling a little sweaty at the moment, so he plucks off his cap to watch as Adrien shimmies up his bed in a seductive writhe before turning over, back to the headboard so that he's staring down the length of his own body, one leg bent at the knee, lounging. His position emphasizes that subtly robust curves of muscle along his shoulder and chest, the low twilight pouring in from the windows cutting fine lines across his face that make his cheek bones pop and his peach pink lips stand out against the pale white meat- uh, shit!

Pale white flesh of his cheeks.

"Uh- oh, really?” he chortles while the controller that he still has not either let go or crushed in his tightening grip squeals in protest within his hands.

“Yeah.” Adrien nods, lips pursed and pouty. “It's very flavorful, but my father really insists that I eat only white meat, breasts really. He thinks that its a lot healthier.”

Whoa; abusive, homophobic, _and_ racist. Gabriel Agreste just struck out. What a gem.

Nino takes back every good thought.

“Those are some really ugly stereotypes, man.” Nino is more than familiar with Adrien's attempts at deflecting away from his sore spots, but there's no strained distortion, or even subtle drop in tenor that typically accompanies a pained revelation. Still, it's enough to get Nino to set down his controller and truly focus. His bro needs affirmation, but- but not in a praise-kink way. Nope! Nino is not thinking that!

“I mean, you know that there's nothing wrong with eating... dark meat, right?” he strains to bolster his bro with completely non-sexual praise.

“Oh, of course not, Nino, and it's not like I don't like breast meat.” Adrien's eyes are suddenly mirthful and his tongue, pinker than even his lips, sweeps out ... hungrily? Seductively? “It's just that I get to have that all the time.”

Nino feels like he should give his bro a fist bump because _what a player,_ though he's shockingly casual about all this.

“You should still wrap your, uh, meat, though, dark or white, you know?” Nino offers. Condom use was important regardless of sexual orientation, after all, to prevent unpleasant situations and protect against STIs. His bro might be a player, but that didn't mean that anyone had given him an appropriate education on being safe.

_The things I do for a bro._

Also things he would do to and with a bro...

“Ooh, yeah!” It's so enthused that it has Adrien nearly bouncing in place, and that's enough to warm Nino's ... _heart_. Adrien... bouncing on the bed. “I use lettuce for turkey burgers rather than buns. Better to save the carbs for a buttery croissant.”

Lettuce wrap?

Buttery croissant?

Holy crap! What kind of euphemisms are those?

“Well, mad respect about you being so ... chill about all of this, as long as you're being safe, bro.”

“Oh, sure. I make sure to stick to my diet; I don't want to get fat or anything. My dad would pitch a fit.”

Okay, did Adrien know more about sex than anyone Nino had ever met, or did he not know the men couldn't get pregnant?

This is a very confusing conversation.

“You know that you can't get... fat from eating meat, right?” Nino twiddles his fingers towards Adrien's ... rooster sign. “Only if you're – uh – feeding someone else their dinner.”

Wait, only if that someone else was a woman. Maybe he should have clarified.

Adrien's brow furrows cutely. “What? How does feeding someone _else_ make _me_ fat? You know how calories work, don't you?”

Wait a minute.

Headache ratcheting up as his peaking blood pressure begins to fall ever so slightly, Nino squeezes his forehead. “Are you... actually talking about food?”

“What else would I be talking about?” Adrien questions, giving his head a little shake.

With mingled mortification and melancholy, Nino face-palms and fixes the zipper on his pants.

Someone is going to have to do something about this before things get out of hand.

Unfortunately for all parties involved, as Nino learnt the next Monday, he really should have spoken up then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My image editing skills are non-existent, so while that magazine pile gets the point across, it's just terrible. 
> 
> More attempts at humour and hot-messes to come as this crack fic winds down. 
> 
> After all, we still haven't gotten to the OTP: Adrichat.
> 
> By the way, in case you're wondering about the book underneath Adrien's magazine and Ladybug colouring book:
> 
> After learning how to bake, and inspired by his "eat rooster" sign, Adrien wanted to try to teach himself how to cook properly, and thought that this recipe book would be a good place to start. 
> 
> He just doesn't know what "cock" means.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luka is permitted to visit with his ... very good friend, and has an important question to ask the Agreste heir: Do you know that snake tastes like ... rooster? 
> 
> Inspired by his friend, Adrien shares his joy with the world.

Given the radical disparity in Anarka and Gabriel's worldviews and approaches to parenting, Luka Couffaine never expected to be welcomed into the home of the Agreste heir, so it comes as something of a bewildering, though pleasant, surprise when Adrien texts him an invitation to a private jam session in his room. Wherever she is – likely some place seedy – Anarka is not home at 3:00 PM on a Saturday afternoon, and thus is unable to grant, or deny, permission.

Luka assumes that she'd be fine with it, so long as he leaves a note... unlike her. Oh, well. She probably assumed that she'd be back from her Friday evening bender before Luka or Juleka rose in the morning, but Saturday afternoon sneaks up on you so quickly, doesn't it?

Come, go, or crash at your leisure, he supposes. The only rule: just make sure to leave a “do not disturb” sign on your door if you have a guest and/or guests.

Sometimes, Luka wonders if his mother is a little bit too acquiescing a libertine.

If he gets the clap before he turns twenty-one, despite the careful selection of partners and condom use, he'll have an affirmative answer.

Speaking of potential careful-selection of partners, though...

"I like your sign. It's really... appealing,” Luka offers with a smirk to try to coax out the tittering and hearty flush that help make Adrien so appealing in his best moments. Life is good when you're pan, smooth as snake oil, and just a little, tiny bit of a genuinely caring fuckboi. “You know, I hear that snake tastes like chicken."

"Oh, it does!" Clapping his hands in an expression of unbridled and childish glee that in no way matches the ... mature revelation, Adrien swivels on his piano bench. They had taken a break from their duet so that Luka could pluck a bottle of water from Adrien's mini-fridge. The tantalizing and lurid sign, so carefully positioned on the bedside table as a clear goading invitation, had caught Luka's eye as he passed.

"Y-you, uh, know that?" Luka has eaten a few snakes in his time, but he's used to dealing with people who break down in the face of his heated flirts; having someone who, innocent grin in place as he beams over at Luka, gives as good as he gets, if not better...

Luka swallows as he settles on the edge of the bed, water forgotten, trying to strum something on his guitar but only fumbling chords. The only thing that comes to mind is the [_Jaws_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GMJzkeQDRhU&ab_channel=MarcosKaiser)[ theme, fingerstyle.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GMJzkeQDRhU&ab_channel=MarcosKaiser)

"I've had it a few times at business dinners," Adrien offers.

Rich people orgies, like some sort of Caligula thing? The legends are true. Maybe Anarka and Gabriel would get along after all, despite the dishonest veneer of propriety.

"And, well, rattlesnake is really bland.” The bridge of Adrien's nose scrunches up in dismay. Arms extending into the air as his back arches and the wiry musculature of his chest strains against his tight tee-shirt, Adrien yawns.

Yawns wide.

With his mouth fully open.

Like a snake, unhinging his jaw, wide.

That's... that's a very wide yawn.

Luka tugs at his collar.

Yep. Mm-hm.

 _Wide_.

Adrien turns back to the piano, granting Luka a reprieve to stare at him in a stupor and collect himself.

“But a couple of the others really did taste like chicken," Adrien finishes, running through a few chord progressions with demonstrably deft fingers.

 _Shit_ , Adrien's smooth.

Luka's a big man in many ways.

He knows when he's beat.

* * *

Given the positive reaction that he had received from Luka when his very good, and very affirming, friend had commented on his rooster sign on Saturday, Adrien determines that the best thing that he can do, the thing that a responsible and caring citizen in Paris _must_ do, is to share his joy with the world.

How many people could he spare from a bad day, uplift, or even help ward off an akuma with a tiny boost? Isn't it his responsibility to use his social media platform to help others, break up the storm clouds, advocate for meaningful causes? Maybe not; he's hardly well-educated about the “real world,” even if he does clock in at a 167 IQ, and thus has little insight into the complexities of politics or social ills.

Better for him to listen, than to speak, but this? This is something that he can do.

Hopefully, people will laugh.

He does find it strange that, within five seconds of sending out his Monday morning tweet, Wayhem, Lila, and Marinette have all retweeted him. As he prepares to head to school, shoving his cell phone into his schoolbag and rushing out of his bedroom while Plagg, tucked away inside his breast pocket, cackles and pounds his little nubby fist against Adrien's pec for some reason, he hopes that a silly little tweet will raise people's moods on a gloomy Monday morning. After all, not everyone loves school as much as he does.

Surely his PR agents and media firms won't mind his tweeting something so innocent and hilarious, even though it hasn't been run through focus-group testing or approved officially.

What's the worst that could happen with such an innocuous tweet?

* * *

School is as bizarre as it ever had been. Surely he has missed some critical aspect of social convention, or been left unaware of a new development. Between periods, he checks himself thoroughly in the boys' bathroom mirror, which takes slightly longer than he thought it might because three guys in a row interrupt him, asking him if he needs any help, or if he's interested in joining them for dinner.

Not at the same time, of course. He's in the bathroom for quite some time, completing his inspection, which keeps getting disrupted.

He smiles up at each one in turn, putting a hand to a shoulder, a chest, a forearm, and expressing his sincere thanks while they tremble, which is strange. The bathroom is a little warm, so what's up with the shivers?

His school is filled with kind people, though. It's so nice of them to reach out to try to make friends with him.

If they're cold, though, why do they each look so flushed?

After informing each one of them that his diet is, unfortunately, strictly monitored by his father, which seems to upset them, one of them even going so far as to take him by the hand and offer him his phone number in case things “ever got bad” and he needed to talk to someone, the three give up and allow Adrien to finish his self-inspection.

Nope. Nothing strange there whatsoever. No spinach caught in his teeth; deodorant properly applied; fly zipped, shirt buttoned; hair pristine with gummy gel – God, he can't wait to let loose as Chat Noir this evening...

Oh!

Chat Noir.

Adrien leaves the bathroom with a syrupy smile that's attenuated only by a hint of confusion.

He has a great idea... even if his time in the bathroom hasn't given him any clue as to why-

With a screech-clatter-squeak on the tile floor, Marinette comes bounding into the scene, bouncing off of a locker, hopping on one leg for a few feet, and then pitching forward in something akin to the gesture of an Olympic diver who had just slipped on the diving board and was about to face-plant onto the concrete.

Panic burns his veins, the thought of Marinette's bloodied face after a fall, teary-eyed and rubbing snot and blood from her nose, abhorrent. The image is enough to make him sick because he has to protect his Everyday Ladybug, setting him into motion.

She's the eighth person today to do that, so for once, he doesn't chock it up to her natural clumsiness, but the mysterious _something_ that's been causing people to rubberneck and run face-first into walls whenever he's around.

No time to worry about that now, though.

His natural feline reflexes allow him to dart out, bag tumbling to the floor, to slip into place and intercept the flailing girl. As she slams into his arms, she burns with a mortified flush and she's just so beat-red and shivery and all he wants to do is lean in and kis-

Oh, no.

The protectiveness.

The warmth.

The gentleness.

The fixation and frustration.

The effortless weight of her body in his arms as he cradled her so gently, dipped as if they're dancing.

... _the cream-filled doughnuts for some reason._

He has a crush on Marinette, he realizes as she babbles away and he's unable to let her go, staring into those glorious blue eyes that are saucer-wide in embarrassment, despite the fact that he knows that she has feelings for another boy and also blew his chance as Chat Noir.

Oh, he's in trouble.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chat Noir intervenes on Adrien's behalf when Nathalie comes down on the boy for no discernable reason, deleting his "rooster" tweet. 
> 
> He's thrilled to learn that both Chat and Adrien's fans appreciate and support him.

Nathalie deleted his tweet and it's painfully unfair.

Why should he have to “keep it in the bedroom?!” His silly-angry rooster deserves to be shared with the world, and it had engendered such a positive reaction, too!

His natural tendency towards deference led Adrien to sit in apparent contrition, uncomprehending and utterly oblivious to the source of Nathalie's ire as he was, while she railed against such an irresponsible tweet and stormed about the room in a dry-ice rage, hurling out frankly bizarre assertions about being too old to deal with this shit, having never signed up for such nonsense which was actually a whole lot worse than wearing the sexy blue dress!  
  
Adrien checked out completely at that point.

While it was good that his father was trying to find happiness, just like Adrien himself, he didn't need to hear the details of his father's taste in clothing.

Maybe he should have paid attention, but no dice. Thus, he finds himself completely befuddled, convinced only that this overreaction on the part of his nursemaid is wholly unfair!

As a result, the plan that he devised in the bathroom earlier today is going to have to be kicked into overdrive!

* * *

Under normal circumstances, Chat Noir seeks to avoid any overlap with or interaction between his professional, private, and super-hero twitter accounts.

While, with the permission and oversight of his team of PR agents, he had been permitted to “engage” his feline alter-ego in a battle of puns that took place over the course of several days to allow for focus-group testing between posts, he tends to comment on the status of the heroes in general terms, boosting them and their myriad charitable initiatives only rarely. An irregular reference to “Adrien Agreste” as a famed model, when appropriate to keep up appearances, is similarly slipped into a tweet or two on his Chat Noir handle.

Today, seated on the crumbling brickwork on the edge of a Parisian rooftop near the Point Des Arts, he's compiling a carefully-worded tweet in an effort to help “Adrien Agreste” secure even greater freedom from his overbearing father after the unfathomable debacle earlier today.

He's going to get Marinette into his room, or gain permission to see her regularly, or he'll die trying.

That is when Ladybug finds him, swooping low over the rooftops in a blur of streetlights and the flare of Parisian traffic that sets ablaze the fine webwork mesh of her costume and makes him want to weep at how every flickering candle-flame that bursts along her agile, acrobat's body threatens to combust him like the phosphorus tip of a match and burn him to a cinder.

In other words: _she hot._

But-

But not quite as _warm_ as Marinette.

Oh, God. He's got it bad. What a cad! A player! An unfaithful kitty whose affections are so fickle!

[Bad kitty!](https://media1.tenor.com/images/875a622bc42205276dc0feda3441f019/tenor.gif?itemid=16243008)

“Hey, Chaton,” she sighs. Even though she's slouching a little, it's tough to tear his eyes away as she saunters d'em hips over to settle in next to him on the rooftop's edge, but he respects her too much to ogle.

“Milady, and how are we this fine evening?”  
  
She groans as she sags into place next to him. “Ugh, what a day! I don't even know where to start.”  
  
“The very beginning.” He shrugs, brandishing his baton like a teacher's ruler. “I hear it's a good place.”

“It really wasn't a good place at all.”

“So, tell me about it?” The prodding only seems to squeeze her, compressing her shoulders so that she's not even fully half the pint-sized-powerhouse he knows. Something is seriously wrong.

“I- it's about the boy that I like,” she admits, eyes flicking towards him and down the rooftop again, as if she's ashamed to continue.

That should hurt, and the realization that she could once again be stepping on his heart is written in the furtive wince that makes him ache for her, but not in the way that it once did. Had she spoken of that oblivious potential paramour only a day ago, his heart might have clenched up while admittedly petulant jealousy crushed out any response beyond a pained smile.

Today – today he puts a hand to her shoulder, and it doesn't hurt that badly.

Marinette, he realizes, does that to him. It's not that she takes up space; it's that she fills him up and pushes out the pain. There's no room left for anything but her... even with Ladybug sitting next to him. Nothing hurts so badly when she's there, and she is even at this moment.

She's right there with him because-

Because she's in his heart.

Oh, he really _does_ have it bad! How could he not have noticed?

It was already “terrible” when he held her so gently in his arms, but then Lila had come into class, offering to help him learn how to properly cook his rooster, which sounded like an exercise in cookery that he only wanted to learn from Marinette.

All that warmth had been stoked into an inferno of righteous indignation as Marinette sent Lila skittering off to her desk with her confident censure.

[ _Doki-Doki Panic!_](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFSWlDpA6C4&ab_channel=TeamSalvato) went his heart when their everyday Ladybug had her Hawkmoth-at-the-Eiffel-tower moment.

_She hot._

_He ded._

..Ladybug herself is waiting on him.

“It's okay, LB,” he assures in an easy purr because he's good about covering his breakdowns due to excessive amounts of practice. “You can tell me.”

She's clearly dubious, arms folding up as she questions him with a sardonic glare.

“Really! I don't mind talking about it- or him. Whatever you need to get off your chest, LB.” It surprises him because it's true.

And like that, she breaks.

“Ugh!” Closing in on him in a way that would have had him blushing and awe-struck, she flops against his shoulder. “I made such an _idiot_ out of myself in front of him today. Why do I _do_ this to myself?”  
  
There are the moments of vulnerability and honesty that he lives for, or maybe lived for: when they're themselves and out of genuine intimacy and need, they turn to each other. An aggravated huff tickles his neck, just above his collar.

”Come on. I'm sure that it's not that bad, Ladybug.”

“It's _worse_ than 'that bad!' No matter what I do, or how hard I try, I always fall all over myself whenever he's around. I'm just – just panting after him like a dog when he'd never be interested in... someone like me.”

That's ... a weird image, Ladybug scampering around on all fours like him when he's running full-bore across the rooftops.

“Some guys might be flattered by the attention of a pretty girl. We're told that it's our job to go after girls” - why does her face fall further at that? - “but, uh, what I mean is that it's probably flattering for him if you're the one who's trying to pursue him because you're _you_.”

She scoffs, and it's obvious that she's fiddling with her yo-yo to distract herself as she puts some space between them. Inches feel like light-years, but ... maybe distance is for the best. Maybe there's a warm sun that's been right there all the time while he's been chasing after starlight and shadows.

“I doubt that he's all that impressed by me falling over myself and collapsing into his arms, or face-planting if I'm lucky enough to avoid the embarrassment.”

A quick twirl of his baton distracts her before, quirking his fingers at just the right moment, he sends his own weapon into the air, fumbles the catch, and bonks himself on the head for good measure as she bursts and peels with laughter, clutching her stomach.

To grant her the time that she needs to settle, he scoops up the baton that has clattered to the rooftop and feigns sulking. Chortles and distinctly unladylike snorts reverberate through the Parisian night, forcing him to hide his smile, until at last he speaks.

“I refuse to believe that you're that clumsy.”

“Gee, _thanks_ ,” she says with a snarky grin, ribbing him while the chuckles abate. “Insulted and disbelieved.”

“Okay.” Insensitive and dismissive is not what he was going for, and he attempts to placate her with a gesture of surrender, hands by his head. “I get it, and I'm sorry. That was a real foot-in-my-mouth moment.”

“Pretty disgusting when I assume that you're litter-box trained.” Her stocking-clad foot bounces off his boot as she side-kicks him, leaning her arm against his shoulder, seemingly slightly mollified and emotionally-boosted, and he knows that there's nothing truly wrong.

“What I should have said is that if he's interested, and he must be because it's _you_ , he's flattered that he can have that kind of effect on you.”

For a moment, her expression wavers, and it seems as if she's on the verge of vomiting something out, but a sly smirk that he can't quite believe drops into place instead.

“What? You'd like it if I was flopping all over myself around you?” she asks, poking his ribs.  
  
“I mean, sure, it'd be flattering if the girl I like showed some interest and didn't just tolerate me.”

Her hand finds his, fingers interlocking and squeezing tight, and all traces of mortification are wiped away from her features in an instant. The calm and cool façade, eyes calculating yet concerned, has fallen into place.

“Chat, you know I care about you, right? I don't just _tolerate_ you. You're my best friend, and, in a _platonic_ sense, I love you a lot.”

_oh shit he'd just referred to Marinette as the girl he likes_

And why 'tolerate?' Hadn't Marinette done enough to prove that she actually did care by this point?

“Oh, uh.” God, what is he suppose to say when she's looking at him so earnestly, and is this being unfaithful to Marinette and why does he have to choose even though it's not a choice because neither of them want the _him_ they actually know and why couldn't they since polyamory is a thing, right?

Ladybug and Marinette would be- oh God, they'd be perfectly matched geniuses who flamed with devastating fireworks and gunpowder stockpiles of sufficient size to decimate small nations while warming him up like a perfectly-maintained campfire that was just right for roasting marshmallows to make sweet, tasty, crunchy s'mores that got his face smeared up with melty chocolate...

 _Mmmm_. Marinette and Ladybug s'mores. [All drippy and smooshed together chocolate-marshmallow](https://media1.tenor.com/images/967291322a84f426a1cf335276848a14/tenor.gif?itemid=12751456)-

_Gah!_

She's staring and waiting and clearly starting to get that concerned look on her face that's her pursed lips and slightly cocked brow with the left one sinking down as the other one quirks.

“I wasn't – I mean, I know you care about me, and I love you too, Bug... platonically, that is, 'cause I know that's all we can be. Message received, eh?”

“Okay,” she offers as she withdraws, but she's observant now, careful, and her keen eye, he sees, falls on his baton.

His baton that he left active and logging into his superhero twitter account with his half-finished tweet on full display.

Stopping her would be impossible, and he's too caught up in the terror that maybe, just maybe, his unsent tweet could give him away somehow that he doesn't even think to try as she scoops up his weapon.

Oh, God. Her face.

Rage has her flushing like a cherry tomato and she's _vibrating_ with it!

Why? Could- could she hate Adrien? No. That doesn't make any sense. Outrage over a potential identity-compromising tweet? It's all-

“Chat,” she begins, setting has baton to the craggy and dilapidated brickwork beside her as she rises up to tower over him like Godzilla over Tokyo. Her voice is cold steel. “I thought you said that there's a _girl_ you like: me.”

“Uh, sure, I like M- _girls_! Girls are who I like,” he croaked, mentally fumbling to ascertain the mental steps that Ladybug had taken from his supportive tweet to his love-life. What on Earth was she getting at?

“But that doesn't really have anything to do with the fact that I care about Adrien, too – or what happens to Adrien. It seems like he has ... a really hard time, and I- I just though that I could give him a hand if he needed it.” Of course he cares. He's a superhero, after all, and what does that have to do with... with his liking a cute, freckled pig-tailed girl who feels like home?

Oh, brother. Could he give himself sugar poisoning of some kind, because that was high-end simp territory? Pure cheese, and hot damn did that cheese taste good. Plagg would be so proud, although that was probably the only kind of cheese that the little gremlin found distressful.

Muscles in her cheek begin to twitch, entire face quivering as if she's trying to range through every conceivable expression and emotion in turn and somehow amalgamate them into one, single hideous gestalt.

“I... see,” she mutters, unspooling her yo-yo and turning to the city-scape.

“Ladybug, are you okay?”  
  
“Yes.” She's massaging her forehead with a free hand. “I... I just have to go home now.”  
  
“Uh, okay, Ladybug, but-”

Before he even has a chance to apologize for clearly putting his foot back in his mouth to try to eat his leather boot, or question her reaction, she's cast her yo-yo towards an outcropping of ornate masonry across the street and has taken a graceless, twisting swan-dive off the side of their building.

Strange.

“Uh, Good luck with that guy you were talking about!” he screams after her, much to his regret because the angle of her arc is cut in half as, somehow, she swings face-first into a building, ping-pongs off the side of the brickwork into an _Adrien: The Fragrance_ advertisement, and then lands face-first onto a gravel roof.

He contemplates helping, weighing the dangers and the potential injury to her pride against his own gentlemanly inclinations to assist a Lady in her time of need, but she's off again in a shot before the scales come to rest.

Very strange indeed.

Well, he might not be able to do anything about the buffoonish failings of Ladybug's potential paramour, but a carefully-constructed twitter message might actually grant him the opportunity to ... change targets.

So, he settles back down on his rooftop to finish his tweet.

Falling for a civilian girl was not something that he intended by any means, but when he thinks back to the way that Marinette beamed at him while kneading dough, all the embarrassment over her appearance subsumed in laughter over the silly bread puns he was lobbing out there for just that purpose, he can't bring himself to feel even an iota of regret or guilt.

It's not the whirlwind super-hero romance of partners who were destined to be together, but if he can cocoon himself in the way that Marinette makes him feel, well, he has no regrets.

Sometimes, simple is better.

That applies to people and relationships, he realizes, as much as tweets.

* * *

It's gone viral when Adrien checks his twitter feed the next day.

Scrolling along, he finds that #Adrichat is trending worldwide. What an odd hashtag. He frowns as he skims by a few tweets, as he has to rush to get ready for school before Nathalie presses the issue.

She's been really harsh on him lately for some reason.

The weird Adrichat hashtag even eclipses #letadrienagresteeat but not, for some reason, #letadrienagresteeatrooster, whatever that means.

Chat's fans must have found the silly rooster “Eat!” sign just as funny as he did. He knew that Nathalie and his father were way off base. This was exactly the kind of public-relations move that would benefit the company and raise people's spirits at the same time. A win for his father and for him, as he's been able to help the citizens of Paris.

Most of the highest rated tweets gush profusely at the thought of Adrichat eating roosters together – his fans must really want him to get a proper diet, even though it's pretty healthy, though he laments the restrictions on baked goods.

A number of them are nearly obsessed with seeing him and Chat drinking full-fat cream for some reason.

Strange, but wholesome and supportive.

They're such great fans.

Some people have even posted some WIP line art, the best of which features Chat Noir serving as a kind of blanket for Adrien as they lay splayed out on a rooftop, cuddling up a storm, while Ladybug watches on protectively. She's so beautiful, in her element, her face clearly meant to be flushed with pride and happiness, that he can barely focus on any other detail even if he's resolved that warmth is better than heat.

He sighs and saves the image. It's just like his Lady to watch out for him – both of him – and that's affirming in the context of the simple liaison between three very good friends.

The idea of sharing platonic cuddles with just _one_ such good friend, even if it is himself – and that's actually a little sad because he'd had to cuddle himself to sleep far too often – is so sweet that tears begin to prick at his eyes, forcing him to rub one out and then the other to find relief, his fingers coming away wet.

Oh!

That must be what all those fans meant in their retweets of this particular piece.

With the support of a Parisian hero, he's sure that the media pressure with loosen his father's grip.

After all, he wants to eat so many of Marinette's cream-filled pastries, and maybe, just _maybe_ , help her make some cream-filled pastries, just as an excuse to see her more often.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything comes full circle as Marinette invites Adrien into her home in order to teach him how to properly care for, and cook, rooster.

It ends, as it must, with well-cooked rooster.

Well, chicken breast to be perfectly accurate.

They make their way into her kitchen, Marinette shooing her nosy father away with thinly-veiled threats of violence should he or her mother intervene, save in the case of a fire that might be Marinette flaming up or Adrien accidentally burning down their home.

At _least_ one of those things is bound to happen, Marinette realizes as she watches Adrien fumble with some of the utensils, sending a pan, cutting board, and knife smash-clattering to the ground, jerking her foot out of the way to avoid possible impalement of the not-fun variety. The resounding clash of metal on wood rings and echoes, spearing her eardrums, but she suppresses the wince so that Adrien won't notice.

Showing him that there's nothing wrong with a few accidents, and that every mistake is a learning opportunity, she steels herself for close contact with ~~her~~ the sunshiny angel who just can't seem to stop talking about roosters for some reason and puts a calming hand to his bicep.

His lip is gnawed red while he pauses, mid scramble in his effort to gather up the collection of items that he'd dropped, and she can't fathom why. It's not like he has anything to worry about, or any reason to flush around _her_. She's here for him, and will guide him through the process, every step of the way, hold his hand and ease him through the tumultuous and intimidating first time... cooking chicken.

Oh.

Her goose, on the other hand, is _already_ cooked.

It's yet another moment for Ladybug to set aside her thirst and take a healthy swig of self-respect and put-Adrien-first juice.

If she was a little bit more of a selfishly salty person who resented good people when they accepted vital assistance and care when offered freely, and returned it whenever possible, she might have grown tired of that particular flavour, but Adrien, she knows, strives and struggles and _tries_. He tries so hard to be good and helpful, kind and courteous, that he wounds himself.

Especially when he thinks that he's failed.

“Adrien, it's alright,” she soothes, picking up the cutting board and knife as he retrieves the pan and they cart the collection to the counter. “No harm done.”

Realizing that it has to be drilled in, repeated, memorized by rote after a lifetime of conditioning to believe the opposite, she says it, reminds him of that even though her father had told him outright when he'd been learning how to bake cookies. 

“Ugh, if you're sure, Marinette.” A drooping and bristled forelock of hair falls over his eye, bangs sloppy with just a little bit less gel than she usually notes, making the spice of his cologne and the fleshy scent of his skin more pronounced and clean. Only a hint of the waxy odour reaches her nose, and she realizes that even emotionally-raw – honest – he looks good when he lets his hair down a little bit.

“Absolutely sure, Adrien. There's nothing wrong with dropping a few things, though you do have to be careful with knives.” Obviously, and he knows it from his wincing nod. “We'll rinse them off and get right back to work.”

A moment's cleanup, and they're ready to begin, at least so she thinks.

To explain the full process of breaking down chicken thighs would be too much, so she pulls a Styrofoam tray of previously-thawed chicken breasts from the fridge and sets them on the counter for Adrien to marvel. Eyes wide and glassy, finger raised to poke inquisitively like a curious kitten at the fleshy pinkness on display, he stares at the package and its tender contents.

That soft chicken flesh deforms and takes its shape again when he presses the tip of his finger into the slick plastic wrap, running easy circles around the slightly clammy surface, seeming to marvel at the responsiveness. He's so gentle and inquisitive, as he's obviously never seen anything like this before, that he's touching her raw chicken with nearly reverent figures.

With what is no doubt a tortured grin, she moves to retrieve a few spices.

She makes it only a few steps before the temptation to look at Adrien fingering her chicken proves too great. From behind the obviously curious Adrien, she wipes sweat from her brow as his hand closes around the whole thing, the plastic crinkle of its wrapping stabbing her right in the gut.

[Lucky chicken breast.](https://media1.tenor.com/images/1ae85f09536d0abb2b0031172059ba4e/tenor.gif?itemid=15924510)

It's at that moment that her father proves to be her salvation, knocking once on the kitchen door before pushing his way inside. In his thick hands, he carries a cardboard box, squat and twice as long as it is wide.

“Oh, Adrien, before I forget, your package arrived,” her papa chirps, brandishing the box.

“Package?” Marinette asks as Adrien perks up even further like the adorable little bundle of rooster and/or chicken-fixated innocence that he is.

“Yeah,” Adrien affirms with a nod, reaching out to receive the Amazon package from her father who looks tickled pink.

There's a moment of gut-wrenching giddiness as he takes Adrien's shoulder in one meaty palm and squeezes it like he's – like he's proud of the boy just for standing there. Just for existing and being who he is, and that's the precise instant when she knows that all roosters and cream-filled doughnuts and Chat Noir thirsting for Adrien aside, she's going to do it.

Today's the day that she's going to tell Adrien exactly how she feels, because he deserves to be shown and to be _told_ that there are people in this world who respect him, care for him, value him, and love him for exactly who he is.

He deserves that every day of his life, and beyond that, if she can manage it.

And she's Ladybug.

The _hell_ she can't!

As Nino had informed her a few days ago, after the debacle with Chat that led to extensive contemplation of the two blonds engaged in enthusiastic efforts to give each other hard times by poking and ribbing one another, Adrien was not gay; he was merely European and innocent, as she already knew.

The rooster sign and associated tweets had not meant more than she'd originally thought; it was all just her mind, and Chat Noir's unexpected interest in rescuing cute _princes_ from their towers, that had led her to think otherwise.

By the time she pulls herself out of her own head, a somewhat scary place that's oftentimes overgrown and wild, filled with creeping predator thoughts that all prowl about, seeking after meat they can devour, Adrien has set his package down and torn it open.

She can see wadding paper pushed to the side, but he angles himself in just the wrong way to obscure her view and leave her stewing in frustrated curiosity.

“Oh, yeah! It's better than I thought!” Adrien breathes, one part excited child and another venerating religious adherent.

“What?”  
  
“Oh, it's something that I ordered. When I asked your dad if it would be okay for me to come over a few days ago, I mentioned that my father wasn't letting anything get delivered to the mansion without screening it, and, well, your dad let me ship it here.”

Dare she ask? Does she have the courage to learn the strange, forbidden contents of the treasure package from the depths of Amazon?

It's far less horrifying than she thought, actually, and she deflates, hands unclenching when Adrien shifts to the side.

From the box on the kitchen table, Adrien, hands trembling with eagerness, withdraws what appears to be an apron, the ties falling loose to dangle at his sides as he admires the piece of clothing.

Then, things become distinctly uncomfortable once again.

The subtle sway of Adrien's hips appears to be something akin to a butt-wiggle, like that of a cat about to pounce upon its prey and devour it in such a way as to make Marinette itch everywhere with the longing to retrieve the mouse miraculous and put it to good use.

That thought bubbles up in the one, microscopic sliver of her brain that is not devoted to searing that smouldering skinny-jean-clad rump into her memory because a glute is cute, and a duo are... something that she could think to rhyme with duo if she wasn't devoting quite so much processing power to recording the way in which the fine creases of the seat of Adrien's pants arch and curve as micro-twitches of muscle send delicate vibrations through the curved flesh that she could bounce a quarter off of.

Then, Adrien throws on the apron with a snort of laughter.

It's a wholesome and nearly innocent release of tension that has her deflating like a sputtering balloon with a slobbery wet neck. What a filthy degenerate pervert she is, and why is the mental lambasting of herself only starting the ... inflation again?

This is not the time to uncover unexpected interests, brain!

“Hey, Marinette, could you lace me up?” Adrien asks, arms folding behind him to hold out his apron strings.

Oh, she'd lace him up alright. Lace him up _tight_.

...was that supposed to be a sexual thought?

She doesn't know anymore.

What is sexual?

Everything.

Adrien makes _everything_ sexual.

Rather than lingering on that destructive query or the equally-distressing conclusion, she surges forward, careful to avoid touching Adrien's fingers as she plunks the strings from his hands.

Her hands might melt if she makes skin-to-skin contact.

A little bow is a simple enough thing, easily accommodated in only a single second of proximity that cannot possibly undo her like a sundered Gordian knot. Over, under, in-and-out...

 _Ohjesusyesandno_!

Bow completed, her hands fly into her pockets as she takes a step back from the succulent warmth of Adrien, who radiates heat and has nearly scalded her hands, but he's already turning around and is simply too close for comfort.

And then... _then_ she sees it.

Emblazoned on the chest-protector of the apron that he'd been so eager to show off to her, as evidenced by the massive, hopeful grin that dimples his cheeks and shows off a mouthful of pearly teeth that reflect so much light they're like miniature suns, is a twisted fiend from Marinette's most heated fever-dreams.

“You see, Marinette!” Adrien cheers, pointing two fingers at the image nestled between his pectorals. “I thought of you as soon as I saw this apron-”

_Please don't associate me with the purchase of that thing._

But what it's _referring_ to, on the other hand...

“-and I thought, what better to wear when you taught me how to cook chicken properly!”

“Take it off.”

His face falls, eyes darting down to the offending image on his apron which he begins to finger and stroke mournfully.  
  
“My apron? You- I just thought you'd get a kick out of it too. I-is it that ugly?” he asks, his voice a quivering near-whimper.

She's an inhuman, nefandous monstrosity amalgamated from the viscous slime of human corruption and the abject refuse consisting of viscera and excrement that sluiced through the rusty grated floor of the most obscene abattoir ever conceived by a mind lost to syphilitic madness.

“No! Not your apron! I- I mean your- your _pants_!” she screams while staring at those delightful calves because Adrien does not skip leg day and what did she just say?!

With a burst of rapid blinks, his head pivots to the side in a slow, befuddled roll.

“You want me to take off my pants for you?” he asks, fluffing the edge of his apron to expose more of his legs.

“ _Yes_!” What is she saying? Her hands blur before her eyes, partially washing out Adrien's expression of clear confusion and lingering hurt. “I mean _No_! Why would anyone want you to take off your pants because there's no reason to take off your pants unless you're hot which you are but not that kind of hot and only if you're like sweaty-hot so things are getting really wet and sticky and that would make your pants kind of uncomfortable which means that you'd be totally right to take them off and if it makes you feel better then I'd love it if you take your pants off!”  
  
Her papa, blessed be his soul, checks in on them by peeping into the room, locks eyes with her for a moment, bushy moustached lip twisting up in a grimace of pity as he gives her an encouraging pair of thumbs-up, and then checks out, just like she'd asked during their lengthy conversation on contingency plans during which she'd walked him through her itemized flow-chart of possible scenarios.

“Marinette puts her foot in her mouth” had about seventeen variations, and included an allusion to her thirst-rambling because that had to be taken into account, but not actually referenced directly with her papa because _no_!

“So... does that mean I should leave my pants on?”  
  
“That- that probably would be for the best,” she replies, trying not to stare at his chest, with the image splashed across it, his legs because that's just inviting troublesome images into her sweaty brain, or his eyes because she doesn't want to drown or burn up. That leaves his sock-clad feet, toes wiggling and straining fabric, bumpy protrusions of the digits stressing the material and leaving thick, temping impressions of...

... Oh, no.

She was right.

 _Everything_ is sexual.  
  
“And the apron?” he presses, toes clenching up, and she has to look him in the eyes. The slow journey through well-defined territories and myriad hazardous terrains begins: calves, apron-thighs, stomach that's probably washboard thick, and ... _chest_. “I just though that it was a cute reminder of our shopping trip, you know?”

There's a few seconds of hesitation, the bold and provocative illustration leering at her from its place, plastered to Adrien's pectorals thanks to the tight draw strings that she herself had fixed in place.

“You- you can keep that on,” she sighs, as she's more than resigned to her fate at this point, and her death, which Adrien will, no doubt, cause.

Fortunately, as she finds her voice, retreating into the easy routine of cooking chicken, her existence on this mortal coil is not tragically cut short. Instead, they tuck into the container of chicken breasts, cracking open the seal and removing several cuts of meat so that they can trim off the skin. Adrien's surprisingly skilled with a knife for someone, Marinette knows, who has had little if any practical experience.

[The boy knows how to work a blade and chop meat. (Warning: Loud)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EcA24RTmnF8)

Presumably it's his experience with fencing, years of piano practice refining his motor skills, and his natural attention to detail that lets him trim up the meat with ease after she models the process. His eyes are half-lidded in concentration, luscious lashes fluttering like airplane conductor's batons leading her into a crash landing in the shimmering emerald pools of his eyes.

Proper seasoning and cleanliness are important, so she runs through the process of disinfecting counters and hands before they gather an assortment of spices to flavour the simple baked chicken breasts. Perhaps next time, if she's lucky, she'll show him how to break down chicken thighs, or stuff breasts, but for now, this is enough.

Prepared broth and some easily-diced potatoes and carrot and turnip slices are set to boil so that they can be mashed, suitably simple carb-heavy accompaniments for their chicken.

He soaks up the experience like a parched man in the desert tumbles into an oasis.

Once the oven preheats, a portion of the experience that she must explain while setting the timer, they slide the shallow ceramic cookware into the oven, and she tells him that they should clean up the counters and utensils while they're waiting for dinner.

And they do, Marinette showing him how to wash dishes, which take a good deal longer than she had anticipated. She has to walk him through each of the steps, getting the temperature of the water right by testing it with a pinky and adjusting as needed. He fills the tub for dishes with a smile that's not quite a grin, and not quite that of a child.

He's not a child. Not really, and particularly not in light of the thickening band of muscle over his shoulders, the swell of his biceps that are just burgeoning with mature strength, and the jawline that, now that she's standing next to him, pressed close as she sweats and fidgets, she can see is dusted with blond bristles, wispy and fine.

Could Adrien one day sport a thick, manly beard that would tickle and scrape her flushed cheeks and collarbone as he dragged his lips do-

No!

No beards.

But that smile that sticks in place while he flicks at the bubbles of soap is too wistful to be that of a child; too innocent to be that of an adult.

It's just _Adrien's_ smile.

That's when she knows: it's time.

His face turns towards her, inviting her in to share the laughter and so much more. The most important thing, the one that douses the heat, is the realization that Adrien deserves this and more – deserves to know how she feels because he should know that he's loved, and that there are people out there who value him and his needs – who want him to have a safe space to grow and learn and be himself. Chat had the courage to declare to the world that he supported Adrien, even if he had misunderstood the model's original tweet.

How could she not find the will to do the same with Adrien personally?

Soapy-slick hands emerge from the sudsy dishwater as she closes the distance between them. Dimpled cheeks go slack, and there's just a touch, a feather light brush to explore and test boundaries, her lips angled to the side of his so they only half-meet for a moment that should convey everything that she needs – it has to because she's retreating, confidence melting away.

“I- I really enjoy spending time with you, Adrien,” she breathes with the last vestiges of courage, raw, air filling her lungs like electrified pins and needles. It's necessary for her to gulp down enough oxygen for both of them; he's stopped completely, but he is smiling again – no – _grinning_ wide, and wider still with each click-clack of the mechanical clock in their kitchen. “I- if you wouldn't mind, I'd like to ... do it more often?”

“ _Mind_?” He's blushing redder than that cayenne pepper flakes they'd tossed onto her chicken breasts, and her heart is soaring through her throat at the thought of gobbling up that spicy dish. “Spending time with you is- is _amazing_.”

“Yeah, I mean, it is amazing because- because _you're_ amazing, Adrien,” she says, hand, unfortunately, to his chest-rooster but it's alright because it's his chest-rooster and she can feel the hammer of his heart through the thick, tense muscle. “I just wanted you to know that I love... how amazing you are.”

His tongue darts out to lave over his lips and she has to wonder if it's only her imagination that makes her think that he lingers for just a moment at the corner of his mouth, as if he's sweeping up the flavour of her vanilla lip-gloss.

“ _I'm_ amazing?” he nearly scoffs, his hand finding hers, holding her to his chest, and it doesn't matter that it's a soapy mess that wets his apron. There's a flash of worry at his tone, but his fingers hold her so delicately, pressed to his heart, that she knows that he could never do anything less than cradle hers. “You're the most amazing girl I've ever met, and- and I love ... who you are.”

They're already so close, and _he's leaning in!_

“Then I... I guess we love a lot about each other,” she stumbles, trying to keep still because she can't force this, and she can't even conceive of hoping that he...

A hair's breadth away, so close that she can't even see the gleam of saliva of his lips; there's only the liquid, affection in his eyes and for once, just for once...

“Yeah.” His minty-fresh breath brushes her lips and cheeks, and she's shivering. “And I... wouldn't mind learning more things about you that I'd love.”

That's a more awkwardly phrased statement of interest than anything that Marinette could have ever convened.

And it's also perfect.

Scratch that.

It's not perfect.

The only thing in this world that's perfect is the way that his thick and warm hands fall to her sides, his head cocks so that they are at just the right angle from one another, and he inches forward, giving her every chance to turn away, or push back, or savour the million years of anticipation packed into what must be less than five seconds before-

Bliss.

Soft.

Smooth.

Warm.

Sweet and minty.

Bliss.

It stops, and she's bursting with schoolgirl giggles that match his throatier chuckles while they wobble on equally-shaky legs and somehow, even though she doesn't think that they have the strength to hold themselves up, manage to find all that they need to keep the other standing.

Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength; loving someone deeply gives you courage.

Maybe that's why they can hold each other up.

“So, Marinette, would you, uh, would you like to go out somewhere- uh sometime just you and me or if you're worried about my fans you could come over to my place-” a hissed intake of breath, hands tightening on her wrists “- _just_ to study or play video games or something and not do anything else-”

Oh, they'd be playing plenty of _Super Penguino_ , alright, provided that they have a long talk beforehand about appropriate level restrictions.

“- now that my father said that I could have anyone over or visit friends if I kept my grades up just so long as I never posted anything on social media ever again, and that's not really important to you but I just thought that you should know that he's totally fine with it unless you think that it's a stupid idea which it probably is because every-”

Whatever else he might have to say is cut off, his rambling mouth captured by hers as she grins into his soft lips, plucking up another tender, instantly-reciprocated experimental kiss that's like a refreshing dip into a pool, just slightly heated to cut the shock, but enlivening, vital like the shocked breath that tickles her cheeks.

She would have to make certain that he knows to do the same when the shoe is on the other foot – or in the other mouth, more likely – although that would probably be a form of positive conditioning, resulting in them being utterly incapable of speaking to one another in anything less than an incoherent disaster-ramble that terminated in the same kind of deliciously heated kiss that just broke with a slick, wet _pop_ as their lips parted and she got in a little coy lick to his upper lip because, yes, she is thirsty and needs a perpetual drink from the fountain of Adrien's mouth.

He's smiling just like her, hands quivering with excess energy, when she lowers herself from her tip-toes, realizing that her hands are plastered right to his chest-rooster which is not entirely a bad place to be.

“S-so is that a yes to seeing me in my room?” he asks with a lopsided twist to his lips that she assumes must be an attempt at a suave grin and the most wonderful feeling in the world, next to the flutter of his lips and maybe rooftop ribbing with Chat Noir, is the realization that _she's_ done that to him.  
  
“Whenever you want.”

“Cool.” His lips pop again, sadly lonely this time. “Yeah. That's- that's cool.” He nods, face like an orange sunset, looking around the room because he's so delightfully flustered that he can't seem to look at her and that's a Ladybug-confidence boost for Marinette, alright. “ _You're_ cool. Yep. All cool here because why wouldn't everything be cool with such a cool girl as my, uh... girlfriend?”

It's a question, and she's nodding like a lunatic before it's even fully out of his mouth.

Which is strange, as she didn't think that corpses were capable of motion.

_She ded._

Well, one thing – at least aside from the fire that's burning up her guts and the four flaming cheeks – is most assuredly _not_ cool.

This can't go on, especially now.

“There's just one thing that I have to tell you first, though,” Marinette begins hesitantly, taking her boyfriend's – _Adrien is her boyfriend!_ – hand in her own and grimacing. Clearly, he's distraught by the potential revelation as his smile is that of Adrien Agreste and not plain, simple Adrien. She's committed herself now, and there's no turning back.

Resounding through the bakery below in a scream that leaves the assembled patrons wincing and sparks a dozen flustered and curious conversations, the familiar voice of teen heartthrob and Paris' favoured son, Adrien Agreste, cracked like that of a teenager going through puberty, rings out:

“Coq means _what_?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for sticking with this massive slice of silliness and fluff until the end. I truly appreciate that you took the time to do so, and wish you happy reading, wherever your travels take you.

**Author's Note:**

> Ask not for whom the cock crows; it crows for thee...


End file.
